


I'll Come back to You

by grumpyowls



Series: Forget Me Not [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Modern Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyowls/pseuds/grumpyowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an unfortunate accident and Dorian's struck with amnesia. Set in a modern day Thedas where everything is the same except... modern. Written for the Cullrian Mini Bang 2015!</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Come back to You

**Author's Note:**

> no idea what i'm doing and all my amnesia knowledge comes from trope styles on various shows and movies. i apologize. no medical researched was involved in the writing of this fic. don't hate me too much. also completely and totally not beta'd so if there are mistakes, tell me as i might otherwise miss them.

“Yes, but, who _are_ you?”

The words rattle around inside Cullen’s brain like marbles skittering across the floor. Five little words that have no reason to be in the same sentence together. And here he’d been thinking he’d heard no five worse words than _“Sir, there’s been an accident.”_ at three o’clock in the morning. Seems he’d been wrong. This is far, _far_ worse. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Helplessly he spreads his arms, a breath of air rushing from between dry, parted lips. What is he meant to say? On the other side of the hospital bed, Felix catches his eye and gives him a sad smile. It’s not pity he wants and he can feel irrational anger surge up within him, heat coiling, twisting hard around his bones and feeding that fire right into his blood. 

It’s as if he’s having an outer body experience as he watches Dorian’s eyes–those expressive, grey eyes he loves so much–take him in as if it’s the first time, then shift to Felix in curious wonder. 

“Dorian,” he says carefully, a dodgy flicker of his gaze to Cullen and back, “that’s Cullen.” 

There’s no recognition whatsoever; Cullen’s heart plummets through the ground and makes it all the way to the center of the earth where it promptly bursts into a million pieces, crumples into fiery ash, and is never seen again.  


_Rest in peace, Cullen Rutherford, this is the only time you’ll have it_ .

He swallows thickly, choking back a strangled sort of noise and manages to eke out in a quiet rasp, “Excuse me,” before he’s nearly flinging himself from the room like a highly impressive coward. 

A brisk walk down the hallway takes him to a waiting room. There are a few other unfortunates stuffed into the uncomfortable chairs, hovering in the dim lighting and clutching paper coffee cups as if they’re a lifeline. He gets it. He doesn’t want to, but he does. Cullen exhales harder than he means to, his lungs wheezing, heart shuddering, and eyes burning. His fingers card through his hair once, twice, frizzing it more than it already is and it sticks out akimbo, but he doesn’t care. His feet carry him in a pace the length of the room, then the hallway beyond, then back again. No doubt he’s disturbing the people quietly waiting, but he has too much nervous energy to expel. What he wants is to scream. Maybe punch something? He’s not sure. The only thing within the vicinity is those horrible chairs and a few pathetic looking plants. That violent thought is shelved and saved for later.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes for the millionth time and he thinks he’s nearly ready to break it in half, then chuck it off the roof of the hospital. Without even looking at it, he shuts it off and resumes his pacing. He should leave. That’s what he should do. What help is he by being here? He’s just in the way. After keeping a constant vigil at Dorian’s bedside for several days waiting for him to wake up, now he can’t bear to remain in the same room. 

“–len.” A voice pierces through his own self-pity. “ _Cullen_.” 

It’s Felix. He should’ve left while he had the chance. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with the heartbreak etched all over his features. A wan smile pulls up one side of Felix’s mouth and he tips his head toward the chairs nearby to sit. Cullen doesn’t really want to, but he does anyway, body on autopilot. 

For several long minutes they simply sit. Life goes on around them–nurses bustling by, various machines making noises from patient’s rooms, a woman crying in the corner. Cullen feels for her, his heart _bleeds_ in that moment because he wants to do that, too. But it feels too selfish. He’d been so concerned about _losing_ Dorian that he didn’t even stop to think he could lose _Dorian_. The broken leg, the cracked ribs, all the cuts and scrapes and bruises will all heal with time. Cullen had already begun to catalogue everything, figuring out how to make Dorian’s transition from the hospital to their home easiest and the most comfortable for him, how much time he’d need to take from work so he wouldn’t be left alone.

Now Cullen doesn’t even know if Dorian will be coming home with him when he gets discharged.

He wets his lips, his body deflating as he nearly curls in on himself. Hunching over slightly, his hands hang limply between his knees and his chin nearly touches his chest. All he does his breathe as he closes his eyes. A moment later and he feels the weight of Felix’s hand on his shoulder as he gives a comforting squeeze. 

“There’s a good chance it’s not permanent,” he says softly, making all attempts to make the situation seem hopeful. 

In some way, in some part of his brain Cullen understands that, accepts it, even. Except there’s a larger part of him, one that’s irrational and bratty, the part of him that’s hurt and scared and worried beyond all reason, that can’t look at anything that isn’t a pessimistic world view.

“There’s an equal chance that it could be.” It _could_ be. Cullen could lose not only the last five years, but Dorian, too. Idly, he twists the gold band that sits on his finger. “I’m his husband, Felix, and he doesn’t even remember–” He cuts himself off, lips twisting tightly for a split second. “He doesn’t remember any _part_ of our lives together.”

He feels horrible complaining about it. Dorian’s alive, that’s the most important part. Yet no matter how many times he repeats that to himself, it doesn’t change the heavy weight that sits in the pit of his stomach, pulling hard at his heart to drag it down all over again.

Felix lets his hand fall to rest against the armrest between them. Another silence descends and Cullen can swear he can hear a clock ticking. He wants to set it on fire. The woman in the corner repeats lines of the Chant low under her breath and it makes Cullen’s skin crawl.

“He wants to know more about you, you know.” A nudge against his side has Cullen dragging his gaze up from the floor finally. Felix affects Dorian’s tone, “‘Who _was_ that handsome man? Why, Felix, if being unconscious for days gets me a man like that, I’d say I’d do this far more often.’”

It’s painful to joke at a time like this, and Cullen thinks it’s the lack of sleep compacted with searing grief with a grand helping of discontent and guilt piled on top that push a low laugh from him that’s more breath than sound in his mild delirium. That’s such a Dorian thing to say that Cullen doesn’t doubt for a minute that’s what he said after he’d left.

“Give him time, Cullen. He’ll come back to you.”

Cullen isn’t so sure Felix is right, but he nods all the same before casting a withering, wilted, and wounded look down the hall toward Dorian’s room. Hope hasn’t ever been kind to Cullen, but he’s praying for it right now.

\----

 

Just as Cullen had assumed, Dorian hadn’t gone home with him. It had stung, _oh_ it had stung, when Felix called to discuss the discharge. There had been some part of Cullen that had clung so desperately to the hope that by the week’s end, Dorian would remember him.

He hadn’t.

So, Felix had taken him, assuring both Dorian and Cullen it was fine and he wanted the company–and it was all right for Cullen to stop by whenever he felt like it. Turns out, that was more than all right with Dorian, too. But, Cullen hadn’t gone right away. He felt foolish, his _heart_ felt too heavy. Then he felt horrible for not going immediately and trying his best. No one can pity Cullen quite like Cullen can. 

Eventually he had gone, offering a pathetic lie that work had been keeping him busy as it tends to and he just couldn’t get away. Felix didn’t say anything but he gave him the same sort of look Dorian used to give him when he attempted to twist the truth. That just made him feel worse, but that was deserved.

The first week he’d visited three times. The conversations were sparse, Cullen unsure of what he should give away about their relationship or what he should keep close to the vest. Everyone seemed to think it was for the best to ease Dorian into the past five years of his life and ending with the very big fact he _is_ married. 

Perhaps a little brattily, selfishly, Cullen wants to start there and work his way back.

The following week he begins a routine in visiting every other day. Sometimes Dorian’s too tired to uphold much conversation so their time is cut short. It feels strange to sit beside the bed while he sleeps and that thought makes him entirely too angry. He shouldn’t feel out of place at a time like this. But, like everything else, he just shoves it into a pocket to forget and deal with it later. Sometimes they watch crime dramas on television because Dorian likes to figure out the cases first and then explain why most of what they do doesn’t make any sense. He picks apart everything with such exasperation that Cullen can’t help but smile. After one rerun in particular, Dorian exclaims it’s his favorite one yet, and Cullen doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’d said the very same thing three years ago when they watched it curled up together on their couch.

 

\----

 

It’s nearly a month after the accident when Cullen stops by on a particularly grey and drizzly afternoon. Nearly a month of sleeping alone in a bed that’s even too big for the two of them. Nearly a month of eating dinner alone and not hearing Dorian fuss over Gereon’s ideas or excitedly tell him about a new theory they’d uncovered. Nearly a month and he hasn’t reconciled with anything. Nearly a month since his heart has felt whole.

Felix meets him at the door, explaining he’s got to run out and won’t be long, but if Cullen leaves before he gets back to just lock up. He agrees and they part. When he makes it to Dorian’s room, he raps his knuckles on the frame of the door and peers inside. He’s reclined on the bed with his leg propped up and a book on his lap. Like this, dressed down and unkempt, Cullen still thinks he’s the most beautiful person in the entire world. Even more so when Dorian looks up and gives him that bright smile that chips away so easily at the ice encasing his heart. 

“Well, well. Look who it is. I’d been wondering if you were going to stop by today,” he says casually, marking his page and closing the book. 

Murder mystery; Cullen recognizes the cover, he’d gotten it for Dorian four years ago. His heart shudders violently in his chest and his smile wavers in the slightest degree. “Starting to expect me, are you?”

Dorian laughs and Cullen wants to kiss the sounds from his mouth. Somehow he keeps himself under control as he crosses over to pull over the nearby chair. Outside thunder rumbles low in the distance. A strange silence settles over them, both staring out the window and lost within their own thoughts. Cullen feels like he’s forgetting how to breathe; Dorian feels like he’s getting cabin fever. 

Minutes pass and Cullen knows he should say something, anything, but his mouth doesn’t seem to be listening to his brain. That, however, is nothing new. This often happens to him. Dragging his eyes away from the world outside, he looks at Dorian and is startled to see Dorian already looking at him. Or, rather, regarding him thoughtfully, carefully. By now Cullen knows the meaning of a look like that and he isn’t sure if he wants to know what’s going to come out of his mouth. 

“Tell me how we met.”

 

\----

 

The sky was dark gray and thunder rumbled overhead with the threat of more rain. Cullen stands at the window in his kitchen, half-dressed for work and enjoying the last vestiges of his coffee while watching Beval (a German Shepherd/Siberian Husky mix he rescued two years ago) prance around on the edge of the covered patio. Fearless animal though he is, he doesn't like the rain and getting his paws wet on the grass. There will be a mess to clean up later, he's sure; dogs truly are the gift that keeps on giving.

A bit later once he's dressed and ready, his phone vibrates against the counter, startling him from whatever daydream he let his mind get carried away with. Just a simple text from Garrett: he's outside and for Cullen to move his ass. The drive to the station is filled with terrible music that gives Cullen an ache behind his eyes, but friendly banter about weekend plans is shared, so he can't complain too much. They sprint to the building, waiting for the train and Cullen shivers as the cold air blasts against his damp clothes.

Eventually, they find a place to situate themselves and continue the conversation. It's at the third stop when things change. The usual morning rush hour crowd gets on, sleepy-eyed and some sucking down coffee like they need it to live. Cullen shifts to get more room as well as give it, which is a good thing. Since right before the door closes a man squeezes in right in front of Cullen. Immediately he gets the scent of something bold, something expensive, something sharp and citrus. Something he'd never buy for himself. But, he likes it. The man is on the phone, speaking low–and how the person hears him on that over the din of noise in the car, he'll never know–and his thumb taps out a message faster than Cullen can manage with both of his, while drinking a coffee.

Of course, while he's trying to pick out what other scent is in this stranger's cologne–cloves maybe?–the train jerks to a sudden halt and the next thing he knows there's hot coffee stinging his face, neck, and chest.

There's a litany of cursing which is soon covered up by Garrett's laughter while Cullen gropes around himself for something to wipe it off. If he elbows Garrett in the side while doing so, that's his own business. He is, however, satisfied when he hears the quiet _oof!_ and the laughing stops. Or, slows anyway. That's the best Cullen can hope for.

A silk handkerchief presses into his hand while he feels another hand grip around his arm.

"Do accept my apologies. I should have had a better hold on that."

His voice is nice, Cullen thinks to himself as coffee drips down his chin. What a stunning first impression. "It's all right." It's not, but what else can he say? He feels pinned underneath those eyes. Not to mention he can _feel_ Garrett boring a hole into the side of his head watching this exchange.

"I hardly think so. You're drenched in that mediocre mud that con artist in the station calls coffee. That's offense enough, my dear man."

His eyes flicker over Cullen and he knows what it means. Or, normally he would, but coming from a man so well put together, looking like he walked right out of the pages of those strange fashion magazines his sister pours over, he doesn't know. He feels suddenly  ridiculous in his department store sale suit. He also feels Garrett nudge his side, but he ignores it.

"It wasn't scalding, at least," is the only retort he can think of and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. It won't be fun going through the day like this, but he'll manage.

The look the man fixes him with makes Cullen's blood run hot and he knows his face is starting to show the signs. It gets even worse when the man smiles like he knows Cullen's blushing. He busies himself with at least wiping off his face and neck, averting his eyes to not be tempted into saying something incredibly stupid. It's not until a few moments later when Garrett elbows him harder in the side, lips trembling with barely restrained laughter.

"Cullen's usually got better manners than this," Garrett says in that voice that Cullen knows whatever comes out of his mouth next is going to win him a hard punch to the gut once they get off this Maker-forsaken train. The non-verbal cue to not say whatever he's going to say is ignored and his now former friend continues, "Gets flustered around pretty faces. You know how it is."

Cullen prays for a hole to suck him straight down into his own personal Void.

"I do," the man says in a way that reminds Cullen of Garrett. He lifts a card then slips it into Cullen's pocket with another smile. "And I can't say I mind repeating myself for a handsome man. My name is Dorian and you'll find my information on the card. The least I can do is pay for the dry cleaning."

Cullen opens his mouth then closes it, clears his throat and tries again just as the train jerks back to life. Dorian sways into him and Cullen grips his arm to help keep him steady. "I'll–…Thank you, for the offer."

\----

 

By the time Cullen finishes, Dorian’s already laughing. Laughing enough that tears are beginning to leak out of the corner of one eye and Cullen can’t help laughing right along with him. Dorian’s laugh–his _true_ laugh–has always been infectious. He grips his side to still it from jostling and winces slightly, but it doesn’t curb his amusement at all. “And did you call?”

Cullen’s smile dims slightly, his heart throbbing painfully in his chest with the selfish reason he’s upset to have to tell this story that Dorian should remember. “I did. But not for dry cleaning. I asked you on a date.”

Dorian’s brows raise and his mouth forms a slight o-shape before relaxing back into a smile he knows all too well. “Of course you did. I can’t imagine who wouldn’t.”

_Of course_ that’s Dorian’s response; Cullen can’t even find it in himself to feign shock or surprise or even sheepishness at the discovery. “You’ve always been rather modest.”

Leaning his head back against the headboard, he regards Cullen with a thoughtful sort of look again. Cullen wonders if he’s trying to remember him, if he’s trying to remember the life they’ve built, if he has any inkling about anything. “Ah, yes–modesty. That’s always at the top of the list of ‘Descriptors for Dorian Pavus.’”

It’s like a hot spiked arrow pierces through his heart and he knows there’s a pained look on his face before he can hide it. He hadn’t meant to, of course, but… it can’t be helped. Dorian hasn’t been Dorian _Pavus_ in years. Cullen’s throat works around words to say–something, _anything_ other than sitting here silent, looking all the more like he’s lost something entirely too important. Cullen’s never been quite gifted in faking emotions, still he tries. “Yeah,” not much of a try, but an attempt; it’s just a strained breath of the word. 

This is turning out to be harder than he ever imagined.

 

\----

 

Even with years missing for him still, Dorian isn’t a fool and knows something is wrong. Worse still is that he knows he can’t do a damn thing to help because he doesn’t _know_ what to do. Felix doesn’t answer his questions about certain things and certainly none about Cullen. Well, not any of the _good_ questions he wants to know. Everyone else skirts around it, too. He doesn’t _like_ not knowing or the fact that everyone else seems to know something he doesn’t. 

It’s horrible, really, having to deal with this. Knowing he’s missing something huge because he’s being treated too gently. ‘Easing’ back into his life. But, how can he _ease_ back into something if he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to be easing _back into_? He’s pitched many a fit over it and Felix just tells him time will make it all come together. 

Dorian just feels like he’s _wasting_ time being trapped in bed. He’s not even allowed to use his magic while he recuperates! That might be something he detests almost as much as he detests being out of the loop. Eventually, he begins accumulating books. He orders them, calls in favors, does what he can to get things done. 

After the first time he orders something online and realizes later after Cullen stops by to drop it off that there’s something rather _large_ being left out of their little chats. His curiosity is sparked further still when he gets the books but not the box they came in–not believing for a second that that it was “destroyed en route.”

Maybe he should’ve thought to look before now. Maybe he should’ve looked when he logged in. Maybe he should’ve done a few things differently. But, he didn’t, and there’s no point in dwelling on it now. _Now_ all he can do is move forward. And he plans to do just that.

It’s three weeks later when he decides to spring it on Cullen. Three weeks and this is the eighth visit since he learned of the day they met. Three weeks of pouring over various texts and magical theories. Three weeks of reaching out to former colleagues secretly. Three weeks of not getting very far and hitting a few road blocks, but Dorian is nothing if not determined. It’s another Saturday when Cullen comes in–rosy cheeks complemented by windblown hair and a wine cable knit sweater and dark wash jeans. A vision, Dorian thinks and wants to say so, but something stops him. Instead he just smiles his usual smile reserved just for Cullen and gestures toward the chair. “Come, come. Have a seat. I’ve been bored to tears and needed a pick-me-up.”

Cullen smiles at him, the same sad smile he always gives and it drives Dorian absolutely mad. He thinks he’s probably hiding it well enough, but very little gets by Dorian without his notice. Especially when it’s important. And he’s pretty sure this is incredibly important. Getting himself comfortable in the chair, he eyes all the books piled on the bed and nightstand–all within reach at any given moment. “Feeling any better today?”

Every visit Cullen always asks him that, and Dorian wonders if he even realizes how he’s asking. Now that he’s done a little digging on his own and found  _ some _ answers to  _ some _ questions, he can read between the lines. Cullen’s asking if he remembers anything, not if his health is on the mend. Knowing what he knows of Cullen now, he doesn’t suspect he’s doing it on purpose. “My only complaint is I’ve lost too many hands of Diamondback and owe Felix a house payment.”

They share a laugh and Dorian’s gaze lingers on Cullen for longer than it should. He looks away like he always does when Dorian watches him and that makes him feel… something unpleasant. Now he understands more of why Cullen behaves the way he does and Dorian can’t really blame him. Eventually, Dorian saves Cullen from his thoughts–he can practically see the wheels churning in his head to find a neutral zone in which to land for continuing the conversation–and just lays the question right out there directly, no games, no wordplay, just straight to the point. “How long have we been married?”

 

\----

  

Though he’s in the middle of shifting, lifting one leg to cross his ankle over his knee, Cullen stops. He just dead stops like the  whole world stops when Dorian asks that question. Maybe it shouldn’t be much of a surprise–Dorian’s a smart man. In fact it’s one of the things that make him so charming.

Still…

Cullen slumps back into the seat with enough force that his breath is pushed out of him in a rushed huff. Through his visits, they’ve been working their way through the relationship and really weren’t anywhere close to this reveal. Taking a chance, Cullen looks over to Dorian and he’s sitting there, calm and collected as always, and for a split second Cullen hates everyone who told him not to say anything right away. By now he’d like to think that he can read Dorian’s moods and decipher his masks, and though he’s wearing one now, it’s not the worst he’s seen. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out through his mouth. 

Then just sits there quietly with a hand over his face, fingers rubbing his eyes while he aligns his thoughts in the best order. This is the part he’s been waiting for and now he doesn’t even know what to say. Again he breathes slowly and then he drops his hand to curl around the armrest of the chair so he can look at Dorian. “Three and a half years.”

Dorian doesn’t even miss a beat before he says, “Tell me about it.”

\----

  

The room was decorated in dark, rich colors–browns and reds and plums–accented in gold and crystals. He’s fairly certain the chandelier hanging over the table costs more than he makes in a week. But, he’s not complaining. He’s way too damn nervous for that. Six months ago when he’d decided to just take the plunge and ask Dorian to marry him, he never imagined the opulence in which they’d celebrate the union. It seems all too excessive to him, but it’s what Dorian wanted and that’s what Dorian gets. (Every time he thinks that, even he hears the whip crack far into the distance, as Samson helpfully imitates every single time Cullen relents to Dorian. He doesn’t think he’s whipped by any means, he just knows when and how to pick his fights. It seems silly to deny the man he loves a lavish affair in getting married.)

He makes all attempts to relax against the back of the couch where he’s currently seated, sipping on seltzer water to calm his stomach–not that it’s helping, but he suspects nothing will until the ceremony is over. Half a year seemed to fly by in the blink of an eye. It seems like just yesterday he proposed. The whole day had been planned from top to bottom, sealed and air-tight. He’d purposely waited until it was the anniversary of the day they first met (it’s sappy, and he knows it, but he also one hundred percent doesn’t give a shit), setting up a light lunch at  a small, cozy bistro, a couple’s massage at the fancy place in the city that Dorian likes and Cullen can’t ever pronounce correctly, ending with dinner at the restaurant where they had their first date. Incredibly romantic and took him a few days’ planning to get everything in order.

Of course, things hadn’t gone exactly to plan, and Cullen almost doesn’t know why he bothered. It was the night before the big romantic explosion of sap when it happened. They’d been painting the spare bedroom and downstairs bathroom a different color–Dorian had explained the importance of accent walls when they moved in together, but Cullen really had no general idea what he was talking about and just let him loose in the home improvement store, he hasn’t regretted the choice since–and the day was winding to a close. 

Standing in the middle of the room, he’d stared at the orange wall in front of them and decided he didn’t hate it like he thought he was going to. He’d looked to Dorian then, watching him collect the supplies and put the lid back on the bucket. There was orange and pale seafoam green paint smeared over his arms and shirt, even a bright smudge near his nose and smeared across his cheek. If anyone else could see him now, they’d fall in love with him just as Cullen was all over again. 

“Marry me,” he’d said before he even thought to stop himself.

Dorian froze, halfway to standing up straight and appeared like he was doing some strange new yoga pose. Silence hung over the room and suddenly Cullen regretted not having a better filter on his own tongue. He knew by now Dorian never lept into relationship things head first, but stuck his toe in then slowly submerged himself. Cullen had the apology on the tip of his tongue, ready to blurt out that he didn’t mean it yet, when Dorian straightens with all the dignity and poise a man can have while wearing his boyfriend’s clothes and covered with splotches and flecks of paint. The rejection he’s expecting from that never came, because the next thing he knew, Dorian was looking at him the way he’s always looked at him and said, “All right.”

And that was that.

Well, not _all_ of it. There was a certain amount of celebration right there on the floor. Then again in the shower. Once more when they woke up the next morning. 

Now here they were, getting ready to be married and Cullen couldn’t be happier. A knock at the door drew him from his thoughts and he glanced up to see Branson and Garrett tumbling through the door with Felix in tow. He held up a hand with a folded piece of paper between his fingers. “Just passing along the reply.” 

With Garrett and Branson busy slinging down drinks from the small bar, Cullen thanked Felix before he left then unfolded the note. His had been terribly sappy, even quoted one of Dorian’s favorite poems, so he’s not surprised to see written there in Dorian’s carefully sharp scrawl: 

_You’re still just as dull as you were the day I met you.  
Soon!_

And beneath it were five butts with five dicks dancing on top of them which was Sera’s handiwork. It made him smile and he tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket with the other three responses from earlier in the day. Being apart wasn’t something he liked or wanted to do, but Dorian had insisted it would be _fun_. He fails to see the fun part of waiting hours to see the love of his life.

But the waiting was soon over as they all filed into the chapel. Dorian came in last, looking like a dream in black and gold. All eyes were on him and while he was soaking up the attention like a flower stretching toward the sun, his eyes never left Cullen. He’d never seen him so happy before and he’ll never forget what that looked like or what he felt like to finally have the other half of his heart _finally_ shift into place. 

 

\----

 

Dorian’s brows a knit into a tight v-shape as Cullen slows to the end of his retelling of that day. The frustration is clear, that much is obvious, but Cullen’s not sure which part is causing that frustration. And as terrible as he knows it is, he hopes it’s all of it and the fact he can’t remember any of it. Then he feels guilty for even thinking that, no matter how brief. His head tips back and he stares up at the ceiling, his throat working as he swallows and Cullen just waits in the agonizing silence.

“I can’t believe it.”

Cullen frowns slightly, wondering what he means. He shifts, slipping his wallet out of his back pocket and withdraws a worn slip of paper. “Here.”

After a moment of hesitation, Dorian takes it from him and carefully unfolds it before reading what’s that. He laughs, soft at first, almost incredulous, then it rises in volume as he clutches it over his heart. “You’re so painfully romantic, Cullen. But, that isn’t what I meant. I believe _you_ ; you don’t lie very well, you foolish man. What I _can’t_ believe is that _I_ can’t remember.”

Satisfied that Dorian wasn’t laughing _at_ him, Cullen has visibly relaxed again and gives a sheepish sort of smile, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. It’s not as if Dorian’s wrong–he is romantic and foolish and a terrible liar, but he feels it’s all worth it. “You’re worth every moment, so I can’t regret anything.”

A smile and Dorian crooks a finger while one leg slips off the bed. “Come then, gentleman, help me up.”

Dutifully Cullen does and they’re standing close enough together that he feels that magnetic draw between them, his heart thrumming hard enough that he thinks it might beat right out of his chest. His hands settle against Dorian’s sides–he doesn’t remember how they got there, but they _are_ and Dorian isn’t shoving him away–smoothing down toward his hips and back up again. He smells like citrus and books and warm blankets and ink; Dorian smells like home and it’s all Cullen can do to remain upright and not bury his face in the crook of that elegant neck he loves so much.

Dorian’s hands lift to bracket either side of Cullen’s face, the note still held against his palm. There’s no hesitation now as he leans up the scant few inches and presses a kiss against Cullen’s mouth. It’s hesitant at first, but soon slips into something familiar, something well practiced, something that feels inherently _right_. From the slant of their lips, to the slide of their tongues, it feels like a kiss is meant to feel: bright and electric and full of undisputed affection. Dorian feels spoiled just from this one kiss. He can’t imagine what it’s been like to have been kissed like this for five years and forget all of them. 

When breath runs short, they break apart but don’t go far. Resting forehead to forehead, Cullen unabashedly bumps his nose against Dorian’s and wins a small laugh from that. Something jangles inside of his chest.

“I’ll come back to you,” Dorian murmurs against his lips. Promises aren’t something he breaks and he swears it in his mind and his heart–he _will_ remember. 

And Cullen believes him, because Dorian’s never lied to him and knows his determination better than anyone. He’ll come back and they’ll figure out how together.


End file.
